


The Picture of The Most Dangerous Game

by rustedcrimson



Category: The Most Dangerous Game - Richard Connell, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3815767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustedcrimson/pseuds/rustedcrimson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian falls overboard and ends up on Ship Trap Island. Can he talk his way out of this one, or is he doomed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Picture of The Most Dangerous Game

“Off to the right, there’s a large Island,” Henry said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s rather a mystery.”  
“Has it got a name?” Dorian asked, squinting curiously at the murky layers of fog surrounding them.  
“Ship Trap Island,” Henry began cheerfully, pausing to light a cigarette. “Rather suggestive name, isn’t it?” he added with a grin.  
“I can’t see it,” Dorian muttered, looking crestfallen as he settled back down in his seat.  
“It would look just like any other island, I’m sure,” Basil assured him.  
“You’re wrong, Basil,” Henry said with a slight smirk. “Mystery has a particular  look to it, a certain charisma. As such, a man who keeps himself hidden will possess that same charm.”  
“Perhaps that is why you’re so charmless,” Basil said dryly.  
“How rude!” Henry cried, laughing.  
“I think he’s quite charming,” Dorian said, almost defensively.  
“That’s because you still see that aura of mystery,” Basil said with an amused look. “I know him far too well for there to be any charm left.”  
Henry ignored him. “Did you see how anxious the crew was today? They know that there’s something peculiar about that island, Dorian.” He crossed his legs, tapping his cigarette on the railing. “The lower classes are always better at observing those sorts of things, they have more primal instincts. Why, I should say, I’m near jealous of them. To be so in touch with their most fundamental desires-”  
“Harry, you really oughtn’t talk like that! I know you don’t mean it,” Basil cut in.  
“I certainly do mean it!” He paused. “Now Dorian, close your eyes. Can you not feel it in the air?  A poison, a sense of dread- oh, you’re still young, it should be easier for you.”  
Basil stood up, sighing. “I’m just glad we’re moving past it. I think I’ll turn in for the night.”  
Henry yawned, tossing his cigarette over the balcony. “I’ll be going to sleep as well. Dorian?”  
“I’ll stay out here for a bit,” Dorian said softly, gazing out into the thick night as though the darkness would part and the island would reveal itself to him.  
Henry shrugged. “Don’t stay up all night, we’ve things to do tomorrow, and it’d be a shame to have them ruined by a lack of sleep.”  
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he replied, blowing on his tea.  
The night seemed to wrap its arms around the ship, lips pressed to the wavering ocean. All around him was dark, and a palpable humidity pressed against his skin. The waves kept a steady rhythm against the hull, and he felt himself begin to doze off. A sudden noise jolted him awake, and he jumped up, gripping the railing.  
“Gunshots…” he murmured. “I wonder-” But he was cut off as he tumbled off the boat, the inky sea dragging him into its depths. He broke the surface, gasping for air, but already the boat had sped beyond the range his voice could reach, and soon, the lights were swallowed up into the thick blanket of night. He was treading water, a panic coming over him. His shoes had grown heavy, saturated with salt water, and he kicked them off, letting them drift downwards. He heard the shots again, and decided his best option was to swim towards them. The ship would continue to move, at a much faster pace than he could manage, but islands did not move.  
It had been perhaps half of an hour, and his arms had grown weak, his lids heavy.  
“I have to be close,” he muttered to himself, coughing as the sea-spray burned the back of his throat. A sharp sound pierced the air, some sort of scream, near animalistic and yet- not quite. Dorian shivered. A hallucination. He thought to himself. And yet- if not- it meant he was near shore.  
He swam on, a fresh hope ignited in his heart. Another ten minutes, and he finally heard the crash of breaking waves. A rocky obsidian shore towered above him, and the water lapped melodiously at the cracks and crevices. Had the ocean been less merciful, he may have been thrown against the rocks, crushed and impaled.  
He climbed up the cliff until his hands were raw, nails jagged and bleeding, then collapsed on a flat place in the underbrush. Beyond was a dense jungle, but in the impermeable darkness he could only hear it, and the soft murmuring of it’s strange animals- and soon that too faded. He was exhausted, and sleep quickly took him.  
When he awoke, the contusions on his hands had healed, and the jagged edges of his nails had returned to their impeccable conic shape. The sun beat down on him, and the jungle had become a sweltering disarray of vegetation, and he assumed this to mean it was mid-day. A sharp hunger gnawed at him, and he began to glance around for a trail. There was no obvious path, but he was certain there must be someone about, gunshots mean people, and he was sure he had heard the distinct echo of a revolver.  
He decided the shore was favorable to the thick webbing of vines and weeds that sprouted further inland, and began to walk along the edge of the island. He came to a dishevelment in the underbrush, which was stained with a thick crimson.  
“This is where the shots came from,” he said quietly. Nearby were footprints, which he followed eagerly, climbing over logs, dodging branches, the constancy of thorns and sharp rocks making it impossible for his feet to heal at the uncanny speed he was accustomed to. Fear seized him as night began to slide across the island, thick and near smothering, like an impenetrable fog. The darkness had just become opaque when he spotted the lights.  
“Oh thank God!” he cried, clasping his hands together and sprinting the last yards to the entrance. The gate towered high above him, and spires reached up into the jet sky. Lights appeared to reflect off every surface, and the grandeur of it all seemed to ease Dorian’s nerves. He knocked on the door, a hearty echoing sound, and after a few moments was greeted by a blinding amount of warm affable light- along with the towering silhouette of a man with a thick black beard and a clear view down the barrel of a revolver.  
“I’m very sorry to intrude,” Dorian began, peering into the entryway, “but I was wondering if perhaps I could stay here for the night? You see, I’ve got to get back to London and- well- you must have some boat around that I could borrow.” He paused, watching the man’s thumb pull back the hammer of the gun. “ I’m Dorian Gray,” he added, extending his hand. Before the man had even the chance to take it, he rearranged his posture, and stood at attention, hand in a salute.  
An elegant man had begun to make his way down the marble steps, his thin lips stretched into a smile. Each word he spoke had a certain precision to it, and the slightest hint of a melodious accent. “Ah, Dorian Gray. I’ve heard much about you.” He paused, holding Dorian’s chin in his hand.” My, my. You really are beautiful.”  
“Thank you. Mister…”  
The man continued to smile in the unsettling way of his. “Zaroff. General Zaroff. Please, do come in, Dorian. You must be starving. And don’t mind Ivan, he’s a simple fellow, can’t hear or speak, but he won’t harm you, my boy. He may look to be a savage, such a threatening stature, but he and I are much alike.” Dorian felt a shiver creep up his spine, and clenched his jaw to keep from shaking. He thought of what Henry had said about the charm of mystery. Indeed, he found the General Zaroff to be very charming, among other things.  
He was of moderate stature, slim, and certainly no younger than fifty. Thick white hair covered his head, but his mustache and brows were as black as the warm jungle night. His cheekbones sat high on his face, and there was a sophistication to each of his features, from his thin lips to his dark eyes.  
“I suppose you’ll want some dry clothes, and a meal. Follow Ivan,” he said, motioning towards the burly mass of a man. “I hope the clothes are to your liking. I have fine tastes, as you have no doubt noticed. We are cultured men, aren’t we, Dorian?”  
Dorian nodded. He felt a vague fear whenever he looked the man in the eye, and had averted his gaze, staring at the floor.  
“Now Dorian, you mustn’t be frightened of me, really now. I’m quite a pleasant person. Get dressed, and then come down for dinner. We can talk then.”  
Dorian nodded again, turning to follow Ivan up the stairs. The room was enormous, and against the back wall sat a canopied bed as tall as the high-beamed ceilings, and as wide as half the length of the room. Ivan laid out a suit, and Dorian immediately recognized the style.  
“This was made in London,” he whispered, running his fingers along the seams. “Why, I know this tailor, I’ve met him!”  
Ivan did not reply, but exited the room, leaving Dorian to get dressed.  
The dining room was as magnificent as the rest of the house, with high ceilings, a gorgeous oak table, and artistic wood paneling. It had a bearing of the past, which had been seamlessly blended with the elegance of the modern era. On the walls hung taxidermied heads of tropical beasts, some of them creatures which Dorian had never before laid eyes on. At the head of the great table sat the General, the light hitting his face in such a way that Dorian thought he looked otherworldly.  
“Have a cocktail, my dear boy.”  
Dorian did. It was mixed wonderfully, And so was the next, and the next, and the next. They were eating some sort of soup, very rich, very creamy. Dorian had never tasted it before, and was finding it paired quite well with the champagne Ivan had brought out.  
“I do apologize if it’s not to your standards,” Zaroff began, pouring himself another glass. “Shipments have a ways to go to get out here, and they aren’t at all frequent.”  
“No, it’s very good,” Dorian assured him, blowing on the thick red soup that had been topped off with cream. He had taken quite a liking to the General, though there was still some unease that refused to leave him. He glanced once again at the numerous busts. “You hunt?” he asked. “On the island?”  
“Yes- large game.” He paused, a smile creeping along his thin lips. “The most dangerous sort.”  
“What sort? Are they native?”  
“Oh no, I’ve had the island stocked.”  
“Lucky I made it here without running into one. Which animal?” Dorian asked, mouth full of soup.  
“Why, I only let one out at a time, my boy. The rest I keep well fed, well rested- until I need them.”  
“What sort?” Dorian asked again, his anxiety mounting.  
“You know of course,” General Zaroff began, “that man is an intelligent creature. A creature with such strong desires to live, such wit, creativity, cleverness- and the passion to use them. No other animal has a drive of that sort, no pride, no comprehension- you know boredom well, do you not?”  
“Yes.”  
He smiled. “The thrill of hunting, is not there when your game does not appreciate that intelligence, does not possess its own skills of reasoning. Why, man has evolved to hunt- with the mind. No other creature has that same superiority. I was born to hunt, Mr. Gray. There’s a pleasure in it, a pleasure like no other. I’ve been hunting my entire life,” he said, offering Dorian a silver-tipped cigarette. “I couldn’t even tell you how many animals I’ve killed. But as you must know, even those things one is most passionate about begin to lose their sensation. Now you must remember, hunting was my life, all my life. And it had begun to bore me! You can imagine how that worried me, why, what was I to do? I realized then, why it had come to bore me. Can you guess?”  
Dorian shook his head, near petrified, hands trembling below the table.  
Zaroff leaned over the table, voice a hissing whisper, “I always get my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection.” He paused, watching Dorian’s reaction. “So I asked myself, how could I fix that problem? How could I ensure that the hunt was once again a sport, an exciting endeavor? Why, no existing quarry stood a chance against me. You mustn’t think me a braggart, it’s simply fact. So I had to invent a new animal.”  
“A new animal?” Dorian asked cautiously. He was wholly enamored by this point, and while his nerves burned with a white hotness, his intrigue won him over, and his eyes grew wide in curiosity.  
“Indeed.”  
“How?”  
“I found one, and brought it to this island. Why, the land is perfect for it mazes, obstacles-”  
“The animal, though?” Dorian asked, though his memory had already summoned up that shrill scream he’d heard upon his arrival.  
“I never tire of the hunt now, it never bores me. Why, this animal matches my intelligence, outwits me even-” he was breathless now, with a visible passion. “What must the ideal game have? Cunning, courage, and above all- the ability to reason.”  
“Animals can’t reason,” Dorian said, though he already knew what the reply would be.  
“There’s one that can.”  
Dorian’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Where do you get them?”  
How did you get here?” General Zaroff said, smirking. “Shipwrecks, my dear boy. Some natural, some manufactured.” He went to the window, pulling back the blinds. The pitchy darkness gave way to artificial lighting, and Zaroff pointed to a large contraption easily capable of destroying even the most well-built of ships.  
“A pleasure like no other, you said?”  
“Indeed.”  
“I should like to try.”  
“Really?” Zaroff clasped his hands excitedly. “Oh, I knew you were a fine, civilized young man! A true man of the modern era! You understand, that it’s a game, a wonderful, thrilling, unmatchable game! You, who have known the agonies of ennui, open to the pleasures of this new age!” General Zaroff’s face lit up, and the candlelight glinted off his teeth as he smiled. He looked Dorian up and down, as though appraising him. “Yes, you just need a good night’s sleep, a nice breakfast. You’re in wonderful condition,” he said, examining his blemish and wound free skin, and talking more to himself than anyone else. He locked eyes with Dorian. “You do realize you would be- the quarry?”  
Dorian nodded. “I must ask though, how do I win?”  
“You must survive three days.”  
“I can leave, if I survive?”  
“Of course.”  
“I’ll do it. And I’ll win.”  
The General tapped his fingers on the table. “Are you clever, Mr. Gray?”  
“Very.”  
He laughed. “You’re a promising candidate. I wonder, will you live up to my expectations?”  
Dorian’s confidence was growing with each passing second, and he felt so sure of himself, and so excited for the prospects of the next day’s hunt. “Yes. I’d like to go to sleep now, I don’t want the pleasures of the day spoiled by lack of sleep.”  
“I look forward to it. Goodnight, Dorian.”  
The blankets were soft as the ones he had back home, and sleep came quickly. It was a deep sleep, perhaps the best he’d ever had. It was dreamless, and calm, and he awoke feeling wholly refreshed. The scent of delicate breakfast foods dragged him out of bed, and he stumbled downstairs to sit down to a hearty meal.  
“You slept well?”  “Wonderfully,” Dorian replied, cutting a slice of ham.  
“I’m glad. And are you up to the task?”  
“Undoubtedly.” He wondered, how could the General destroy such beauty? Certainly, even if he were not clever enough to avoid attacks, how could Zaroff harm him? To destroy beauty is the most difficult of things. No, he would win, undoubtedly. All uneasiness had dissipated. And yet, a slight, lingering fear remained.  
“You will leave once you’ve finished eating. I’ll follow after three hours.”  
“I look forward to it,” Dorian said, a smile playing upon his delicate red lips. He had his own ideas, however, for how the game would play out.  
“As do I,” General Zaroff replied smugly.  
“I hope I’m the challenge you’ve been searching for,” Dorian said, calmly pouring another glass of wine. He lit a cigarette and sat back in the chair. “And I hope you’re as good as you say. I’d hate to be disappointed.”  
“I haven’t lost a game yet,” Zaroff said, sipping a glass of claret.  
“Then what keeps it from boring you as your other quarry was?”  
“Man is a dangerous creature, Dorian. He can think, and feel, and understand. An animal, how can they know of their part in the game? A man, a man can create, and reason, and build. He is not like other game, Dorian. Man is a wonderful creature. Oh, such pleasure to be gained from the pain of others!”  
Dorian clasped his hands gleefully. “Isn’t it wonderful!”  
“Power, my dear boy, power and the ability to exercise it over others, the thrill of gaining that power- that is what makes this life worth living. Why, to die in the thrill of the hunt would be a pleasure all its own! You truly are an amazing boy! You may prove to be my finest challenge yet!”  
If he could win the General’s favor, perhaps he would have not even the slightest of things to worry about. Yes, he had simply to make Zaroff like him, and then, whether he succeeded or not, freedom would be his, and he could return to London! The excitement of it all had made him light-headed, and he felt a surge of adrenaline. Oh, why had Henry never told him how good fear could feel! Yes, he loved this! The way his heart beat with such purpose, and each breath he drew seemed to energize every inch of his body- his whole being ached with desire, and this hunt, this game, was the only release.  
“How does it feel?” he asked. “To kill?”  
“More thrilling, more enticing, than I could ever begin to explain. To end another life is the most power any being can have.”  
“I’ve never killed anything before,” Dorian said.  
“Never killed anything! Why, then you haven’t lived!”  
“I’ve lived plenty,” Dorian retorted, pouting.  
“Well then today you start a new life.”  
“Yes, indeed,” Dorian said, finishing his wine.  
“Are you ready to go then?”  
“As soon as I finish my cigarette,” Dorian said, leaning back and propping his feet up on the table. He took a long drag.  
“You seem quite sure of yourself,” Zaroff laughed.  
“I am,” Dorian said with a smug grin. He put his cigarette out. “Do I get a gun?”  
“No, no gun.”  
“That hardly seems fair.”  
“I’m the hunter, you’re the game.”  
This was his chance to rearrange the stakes, the standings. Dorian gave a sly smile. “Why, surely you must tire of that? Why don’t you try being the quarry? Wouldn’t that be interesting? If I were to hunt you? Change the rules a bit, bring in some spontaneity.”  
“An interesting proposition,” General Zaroff said, running his fingers through his hair. “And you’ve never worked a gun?”  
Dorian shook his head.  
“Yes- yes I suppose that could be a nice change of pace… But no. No, Dorian.”  
“Are you afraid I’ll beat you at your own game? Afraid I’ll be a better hunter?”  
“You may have never played my game- but you certainly know how to play the game that the human mind presents. I’ll indulge you. I get three hours, and you come after me. You get one gun, low caliber. It raises the level of the challenge-”  
“I’m not as skilled a gunsman of you. Oughtn’t I be given a better weapon?”  
“A shotgun. But nothing more. You’ve already gotten more than I ought to give you. Take it or leave it.”  
Dorian lit another cigarette. “Three hours. Get going. I’ll see you soon.”  
“Now, hold up a minute. How can I be sure you’ll keep your word? How can I be sure you won’t cheat?”  
“Why, isn’t that half the fun?” Dorian asked, laughing.  
“This is a game, my boy, it has rules. How can I know for sure that you’ll follow them?”  
He shrugged. “You’ll just have to trust me, I suppose.”  
General Zaroff narrowed his eyes. “You’re pushing my patience, boy.”  
Dorian slid his feet back onto the floor, “Hey, hey, alright. I’m just playing around. I won’t cheat. You have my word.”  
“Oh Mr. Gray, your word is hardly credible.”  
“What would you have me do then, to prove it?”  
“Perhaps it would be best if we just played it my way,” Zaroff said with a wave of his hand.  
Dorian sat up. “Now hold up a minute. What would you suggest I do to earn your trust?”  
“It’s over. I’ve got a knife for you, a bag of supplies, and some boots. Why, I’ll even throw in a pack of cigarettes. Be ready for me. Three hours, Dorian. I must congratulate you though, you had me nearly convinced to-”  
“Just wait- I have a proposition-”  
“It’s too late,” Zaroff growled.  
Dorian struggled to regain his composure, pressing his hand against the table to steady it. “I only ask that you listen, why, don’t feel obligated to do a thing. It’s quite clever, in its way, this idea, I think you’ll like it.”  
“It wouldn’t hurt to listen, I suppose,” the General replied, smoothing out his jacket.  
“Exactly,” Dorian started, confidence returning. “Now, three hours you say? Lock me in the front room with Ivan. He can keep an eye on me, and let me go after the three hours.”  
“That idea’s far too simple to be clever.”  
“And yet, would it not work wonderfully?” Dorian asked, raising his eyebrows. “Too simple an idea for you to have devised. Yet, does that not make it clever in its own way? The most intelligent of men can be outwitted by the absence of complication.”  
“Why, it is such a shame that death should come to you so soon, you’re quite the best conversational partner I’ve come across on this island.”  
“Yes, it is a shame, isn’t it?” he began, licking his lips. “Say, why ought we go up against each other? Why not team up? We could have wonderful fun.”  
“The pleasure is in the hunt, Dorian. Conversation is nothing more than a vaguely entertaining pastime.”  
Dorian had grown accustomed to talking his way out of or into whatever he wanted. In fact, he had grown so accustomed to it, that he could do little besides talk. Yet, this sort of fear was such a new and enjoyable sensation that he took no time to be concerned by Zaroff’s response. Besides, he only half-wanted this. Why, he’d never been hunting before. And to hunt a man! Yes, the General certainly had wonderful taste! What a game, what a sport! He could feel his pulse vibrating in his hands, his cheeks, pounding in his chest. He felt so alive! Invincible! As though his legs could run miles without tiring! He stretched out in the chair, sighing.  
“Well then, we hunt!” Dorian said, grinning. “Get Ivan, and head out. I’ll follow.”  
“In three hours.”  
“Yes, three hours.”  
“And if I survive the three days?”  
Yes, the rules were Dorian’s to make now.  
“If you survive the three days, than you hunt me in the next round.”  
“Shall we shake on it?”  
“Yes.”  
They did, and Zaroff grabbed his supplies and set off, leaving Ivan to watch Dorian.  
Dorian settled down in an armchair, smoking contentedly. He was skimming a book, sprawled languidly across the seat. Ivan had the shotgun, and kept it warily pointed towards the boy.  
Dorian looked up from his book. “You really needn’t do that, you know. I won’t try to cheat.” He tapped the ashes off the edge of his cigarette. Ivan, of course, did not reply. “Why, I’m quite looking forward to this game,” he added, setting the book on the arm of the chair.  
The clock struck two, and a rich chiming filled the room. Ivan grunted, and handed the shotgun to Dorian, motioning to the door.  
“Why thank you, Ivan.”  
The air was thick, and the humidity pressed down on him, the heat soaking his clothes with sweat. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and pressed onwards.  
“I don’t see any footprints,” he murmured, glancing at the ground. Dorian had never tracked any animal before, let alone a man. Yes, perhaps this would be harder than he had initially imagined. He sat on a rock and took a drink of water out of his canteen. He had come to breakfast in a suit, and had not had the good sense to change before entering the jungle. The wool jacket was heavy, and had begun to rub uncomfortably against his neck. He tugged his tie off and let it hang from his neck. Perhaps he could use it later. He tied the jacket around his waist, and buttoned down the top. Yes, that was better. He rolled his sleeves up and began walking again.  
If he couldn’t distinguish a trail, he could at least enjoy the beauty of the jungle. All around him were flowers he’d never seen before, scarlet blooms with soft yellow pistils, violet petals that dropped effortlessly around the flower’s center, and orange star shaped blooms that spread out delicately.  
After several hours, he came to a small stream that slipped down a slick pile of stones. Thin, lush blades of grass were laden with droplets of water that bounced like a misty spray from the mossy rocks. He sat down on a flat rock by the water and pulled off his shirt, rinsing it in the stream.  
“I smell awful,” he muttered to himself, wringing the shirt out over the grass. He laid out on the brush, letting the sun’s radiance press against his skin. He stretched out, feeling the grass between his fingers, feeling the warm dirt under his bare feet.  
“Mmm. I’ll find him later,” he sighed. “I’ll just stay here for now. There can’t be any harm in it, I’m hunting him, after all,” Dorian murmured, letting himself sink into the soft foliage. Hours must have passed before he woke up, yawning. He pulled his boots back on, slinging both the shirt and jacket over his shoulder. He wrapped the tie around his head, pushing his hair back so that the golden strands didn’t obscure his vision.  
He looked around for the shotgun, but found only the flattened grass where it had lain earlier.  
“You cheated!” he yelled, throwing his jacket at the clump of trees nearest to him. “I thought the game had rules, Zaroff!”  
There was a rustle in the underbrush, and The General came walking out of the jungle, leaning on the handle of the gun. “I’m just using the resources around me,” he said with a shrug. He tossed a knife to Dorian. “Looks like I’m the hunter once again.”  
“You broke the rules!”  
“I took what I found in the forest,” he said, raising the gun. “At least I didn’t shoot you while you were asleep.”  
Dorian’s anger gave way to anxiety. “Now Zaroff, let’s talk, you and I, man to man.”  
“We’re not here to talk, Dorian,” he said, cocking the gun. “We’re here to hunt, my boy.”  
“I’d much rather talk,” Dorian said, leaning against a nearby tree and trying to look nonchalant.  
“It really is a shame,” Zaroff said as he pulled the trigger.  
Dorian moved to the side, and the bullet ripped through his shoulder. He doubled over with a scream, cringing and holding his hand against the wound.  
“How rude!” Dorian cried.” Where’s all the politesse I saw when we first met?” he added, clucking his tongue as he stood back up slowly, moving his hand away from the site of the gunshot. Blood had stained his skin, but the injury had been sealed shut, leaving behind not even a scarring of tissue. He wiped the blood away. “Perhaps now you’d like to talk,” he grinned, pulling the tie off his head and letting his hair scatter across his forehead. “Yes, I do look better this way,” he murmured, twirling the knife between his fingers.  
Another shot. This time through the chest.  
“Oh, that really did hurt,” Dorian muttered, using his shirt to mop up the blood. “I wish you would stop, this isn’t getting you anywhere. Six more bullets. They don’t work on me, might as well save them for the wildlife. Now, would you like to talk?”  
“What are you?” General Zaroff asked, curious, but unfazed.  
Dorian laughed. “Well I’m not quite human. Though I expect you know that. You’re an intelligent man, after all.” Dorian leaned back against the tree, carving lines in the bark with his knife. “Why don’t we go back to your house, and we can discuss what I am over a nice hot meal.”  
“I’d rather find a way to kill you,” Zaroff said, stepping closer to Dorian, and pressing his hand against the boy’s shoulder, where just moments before a bullet had torn the flesh apart. “You certainly are a challenging quarry.”  
Dorian moved The General’s hand to the middle of his chest. “My heart just got torn to shreds and it’s still beating. You can’t kill me, Zaroff. Now, let’s talk. You intrigue me, I’d love to hear more about how you came to take up this hobby.”  
“Aren’t you going to kill me?” The General asked, pointing to the knife that Dorian had begun to chew on absentmindedly.  
“Where would the fun in that be?” Dorian asked, tossing the knife into the muddy riverbank. “I’ve got quite the upperhand.”  
“You must have some weakness. I could sense your fear this morning.”  
“I’ll level with you, Zaroff. I didn’t think I could be healed of fatal wounds.” He paused, briefly putting his hand over his heart. “But it seems I can. It’s almost upsetting, really. Fear can feel so very wonderful.”  
“It hurts you though?”  
“Yes. I nearly blacked out after that second shot.” He smiled. “But pain too, can be a pleasure,” he added, licking the blood off his fingers.  
“We’ll go back to my house. You must promise though, to tell me what you are,” he said with fervor. “I need to know.”  
“Of course, of course. But you must promise, to send me home tomorrow at sunrise.”  
General Zaroff flashed a sly grin, “Yes. Of course.”  
Dorian did not trust him, not in the slightest. But he was immortal, it seemed, and the jungle had no wine. Should it come to it, he could murder Zaroff in the night, and be back in London by the end of the week.  
Dorian walked barefoot, and Zaroff seemed very interested in the cuts that formed, healed, and reformed on his feet. He said nothing, and Dorian had grown too arrogant to notice the eagerness in his glances.  
The dark of night came before they reached the house, and Zaroff suggested they camp out until morning. Dorian agreed reluctantly, and stretched out languidly on an overgrown tree-root.  
Zaroff started a fire, and Dorian heard him humming softly as he cooked potatoes over the flame. Slumber overtook him, and the darkness of night gave way to darkness of mind.  
He was awakened by the sensation of cold metal pressed against his chest. He sat up, yawning, “You already know that-”  
“If you can’t heal fast enough, you’ll die,” Zaroff murmured.  
It was still dark, and Dorian saw only by the dimming light of the campfire. Fear began to creep into his mind, and he thought on what the General had said. Could he be right? An anxiety seized him, and he backed himself up against the tree, squirming under the frigid barrel of the gun.  
The General gave a disturbingly elated grin. “Goodnight, Dorian.” There was a pause. “And good-bye.”  
Six shots echoed through the jungle, and six screams followed them. Dorian struggled to his feet, panting. He groaned, stumbling around the clearing. “You- almost- had me- there,” he managed to say, finally finding his balance.  
“Damn it! Not enough bullets!”  
“Face it, Zaroff,” Dorian said, regaining his posture, “you can’t kill me!”  
“The dogs could take care of you,” he began, murmuring to himself. “Or perhaps- starvation, dehydration, drowning! Yes!”  
Dorian began to back away nervously. “You wouldn’t.”  
“Oh, I certainly would. And if I did, oh, how I’d enjoy it! Whatever you are- you’re near immortal- to kill a supernatural being with the mind of a man! I wonder what that must feel like!”  
Dorian took a sharp inhale, and turned to run. Zaroff dragged him to the ground, and held him down. Dorian struggled, grunting and scratching at the man. Zaroff looked up for a moment, and a hideous smile played upon his thin lips. He was looking at the fire.  
“Let’s see you heal from this!” he said, rolling sideways and shoving Dorian into the flames.  
Dorian let out a screech, and flailed about on the ground, but it was of little use. The constancy of the flame bore down into his flesh, lapping at his lungs, he lay writhing on the ground, screaming in pain, clutching at his chest as the flames began to slip around his heart.  
Zaroff watched from a few feet away, the warm light flickering in his eyes, glinting off the teeth between his parted lips. A smugness overcame his expression, and he looked on with pleasure, watching Dorian’s movements begin to slow, hearing the shrieks ebb to a quiet wailing, and then to silence. The flames died down, and Zaroff walked over to the charred wreck of a corpse.  
A grin slid across his mouth. “Not so pretty anymore, are you, my boy?” He picked up the shotgun and propped it up over his shoulder, whistling as he followed the earliest rays of the sun back to his house.


End file.
